


The Empty Flat

by Tempest_Wind



Series: A Return, A Trap, Another Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Series 3, Sherlock - Freeform, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tempest_Wind/pseuds/Tempest_Wind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Sherlock Holmes' disappearance, John found a way to carry on. However, a message from an old friend sends him chasing his past at the risk of destroying the new life he has built. The twists and turns become more complicated as John falls deeper into the mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off "The Adventure of the Empty House" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. With inspiration from "The Sign of Four," "The Adventure of the Dancing Men," "The Man With The Twisted Lip," as well as the Kandahar Massacre.
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas Lozchic, Caenis, Asterose, Nathan, and Davina for putting up with rigorous deadlines and for supplying me with the necessary information to make this story so much better. You guys are the best!

-

“Hell of a wedding, this,” Lestrade said as he stood in the corridor of John’s new house. John held the cold lager to keep his hands busy while Lestrade seemed intent on finishing the case.

“It’s not much of a wedding,” Mrs. Hudson confided to Lestrade. “He didn’t even let me buy them cake.”

“Well, it’s not exactly – we just wanted to keep it small,” John fumbled for an explanation. “Civil marriage and some close friends.”

“Yes, well, this whole marriage business -- you could’ve given us a warning,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Told me ahead of time so I could buy you something nice.”

“No, no,” John shook his head with a smile. He hesitated before touching Mrs. Hudson’s arm, affectionate from guilt. “No gifts. We just wanted friends here. A small gathering.”

Mrs. Hudson peered into the sitting room. “Is that her in there? The skinny little wisp of a thing?”

“Yes. And, er, Harry’s in there with her,” John said.

“Really, John, I expected her to have darker hair,” Mrs. Hudson said. “She is quite young though…”

Now John was searching for a window to crawl out of. “Drinks, Mrs. Hudson?” 

“In a minute. I haven’t heard from you in ages, love. I wanted to catch up a bit first.”

Lestrade offered to bail John out with a look. John shook his head. “Mary’s my patient—was my patient,” he said. “We met a little over a month ago and, er, started dating a few weeks ago.”

“Well, how about you? Seeing someone?” Lestrade asked Mrs. Hudson, doing John the favor of controlling the conversation.

“Yes, in fact,” she said, flourishing with pride. “Though we’re keeping it a secret. Nothing like the thrill of excitement. The house was getting so lonely.” John’s face shifted through several stages of discomfort before he looked away.

Lestrade took this as a sign to abruptly end that topic. “So my department got an interesting case yesterday,” he said. John raised his eyebrows. “Man alone in his room, shot through an open window – sound familiar?”

“Oh, dear, not a murder,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Don’t talk about that here; it’s too gruesome. This is a wedding, boys.”

“Nah, John loves this stuff,” Lestrade said. “He’s twisted like _he_ was.”

The three of them fell silent. John’s face faded into blank safety as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade struggled to revive the conversation.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson said, “Well, I think I’ll go introduce myself to your wife. Mary’s her name?”

“Yes,” John said abruptly. “And Harry’s in there with her.”

“Glad your sister could come.” Mrs. Hudson made her way to the sitting room.

-

There was something about the harsh lighting and white walls that made people open up to their doctors. John was the farthest thing from a psychologist, but he could probably recite the marriage problems and emotional states of his every current patient.

That’s why he found it so odd that his therapist kept such a dark room with such wide windows. The concept of “privacy” was entirely eliminated with a feeling much like he’d crawled into the enemy’s barracks.

Still, he’d been seeing Dr. Thompson regularly for two years and he’d known her for nearly four. He could take a deep breath and tell himself to open up, and it worked.

“Have you looked at your blog like I asked?” Dr. Thompson asked.

“No, no,” John said with a nervous chuckle. “I mean yes. I attempted to, but I didn’t actually – couldn’t actually look right at it.”

“John, it’s been two years.”

“I’d like to think my past is behind me.” He attempted to rest his head on his hand, but couldn’t quite figure out how to angle his wrist properly. He fidgeted with his other hand, tugging at a loose string on the chair’s arm.

“John, it’s important for you to stay connected to your past,” she said.

“I… think I’ve done better by staying away from it, thanks.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”

John regarded her with silence.

Dr. Thompson closed her eyes as well as her notebook. “I want you to start another blog.” 

He groaned. “No, I can’t.”

She wasn’t hearing any of that. “Write about your current life,” she said. “It should ease you into the habit of checking your blog again. I think that’s the first step towards confronting your past.”

“But nothing – and I mean seriously nothing – happens to me. And if there’s anything interesting, it’s patient confidentiality.”

“You did just get married. Write about that.”

-

Setting up the new blog offered more road blocks than results. There was the matter of a domain name and then his password was rejected eight times. Finally, when John couldn’t stand the frustration any longer, he completed his registration, but he had no idea what to write.

Mary made her way downstairs, her hair mussed from a nap. She checked the pile of mail in the basket by the door and made a pleased sound.

“They sent the new identification,” she called over to him. “’Mary Watson:’ it makes me sound like an intellectual. Good thing too, because their spelling is awful. You’d be impressed with how they spell Morstan: ‘Morston,’ ‘Morsten,’ ‘Morstone’ – it’s like they never bothered looking.”

“Mm,” he mumbled, still focused entirely on the task his therapist gave him. He started typing with two fingers about how he was a doctor in Afghanistan, but immediately deleted it.

She approached the sitting room and stopped short. “John?” she tried.

He looked up, guilty like he’d been caught in the middle of an argument with himself.

She stiffened with embarrassment as well. “I don’t know what that face you’re making means, but you guys fix everything with tea, right? I’ll go start the kettle.”

“Yeah, alright,” he said, trying to mask his shame with blandness.

She disappeared into the kitchen for maybe thirty seconds before she came back out, looking sheepish. “I actually don’t know how to use an electric kettle,” she admitted.

John’s throat caught on a chuckle and put his laptop aside. “Americans,” he shook his head as he stood to help.

-

_“My name is John Watson. I’m a doctor. Nothing terribly exciting happens to me, so I don’t expect anyone to actually read this blog._

_“I recently married a woman named Mary.”_

-

“You wrote in your blog,” Dr. Thompson said.

“Yes.” John raised his head, feigning pride. 

Dr. Thompson didn’t regard him and instead kept her eyes on her notes. “Very good,” she finally said and John felt like a dog who received a pat when expecting a treat. “Tell me about your wife.”

“Mary,” John said as if reminding himself. “She’s, well, she’s great.”

“You’ve told me she’s American.”

“Yes.” He realised he was meant to say more. “Which is great. It’s really… it’s a relief, almost.”

Dr. Thompson went silent, though she watched John intently.

John forced himself to keep going. “I just mean, she missed the whole craze. The whole… Sherlock Holmes craze. She doesn’t know my past. She barely knows I was in the military.”

“You said it’s a relief,” Dr. Thompson pressed.

“It is a relief.”

Dr. Thompson’s silent question hung in the air. Finally, when it seemed that John was going to skirt the issue, she asked it aloud: “Why is it a relief?”

“I don’t know,” was John’s immediate reply. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked out the enormous set of windows. “It’s just… I know she won’t be asking questions. Questions that I don’t want to answer.”

-

“How’s married life treating you?” Lestrade asked John. It was lunch at the pub and their table was pressed up against the window, so they took turns staring outside at the people walking past.

“Hm? Fine,” John said. He took a forkful of salad that was too large to fit in his mouth while Lestrade alternated between his chicken tikka masala and chips.

“You get her pregnant?” Lestrade asked and John choked on his water.

“What?”

“Don’t act like – listen, you’ve known her a month.”

“Almost two—two months,” John insisted.

“You don’t marry a girl that quick,” Lestrade said. “Well, maybe some people do. But you wouldn’t.”

The salad tasted like nervous bile so John stopped eating. 

“When’s she due?” Lestrade asked, his tone casual, but forced.

“She’s not pregnant,” John insisted. “I haven’t – isn’t it possible to know you love someone very early on?”

“Love at first sight?” 

John felt relief bubble through his stomach. “Yes.”

“That’s bullshit.” 

John stabbed his salad and left the fork there. His hands tightened as he forced himself to breathe evenly. “Well… you’ll just have to trust me.”

“I trust you,” Lestrade said and shoved three chips in his mouth. “I don’t always trust your judgment. I’ve been married and divorced, which is probably the worst experience I’ve ever had.”

“I’m not going to get a divorce,” John muttered. Even his coffee had a sour taste.

“You say that now…”

“Yes, well, you’re not me,” John said, blinking furiously as he sat stock-still. 

They fell into silence. Lestrade kept chewing while John’s salad faded into table decor.

Two bicyclists passed and three people caught cabs before Lestrade spoke again.

“So the case… guy who’s been shot in his room through an open window – it wasn’t a regular gun that shot him,” Lestrade said. John looked right at him, so Lestrade went on. “Sniper rifle.”

“Are you serious?” John eased into this new topic.

“And no known enemies,” Lestrade went on. “The victim was something like a saint. Not married, helped the homeless, worked not-for-profit.”

John’s mind was already circling through possibilities: illegitimate children, bad connections, past lovers. However, all of this was just guesswork. He didn’t have the ability to look at a man’s fingernails and tell where he’d been in the last 48 hours, so John pushed aside those thoughts. “It’s like the world’s gone mad,” he said.

“It’s always been mad. It’s just harder to figure things out now.” Lestrade grit his teeth and scratch his head. 

It took John a while to summon something akin to sympathy. “Stop blaming yourself,” he said as if reminding a forgetful classmate about his homework assignment.

“I know, but…” Lestrade trailed off.

John thought back two years to earlier sessions with Dr. Thompson where every other sentence caused his voice to crack and his throat to tighten. During those quiet, emotional meetings, he wanted to throw fault around. Instead, Dr. Thompson worked on having him let go.

“I still forgive you,” John said. The feeling that followed wasn’t relief. John felt more like he’d helped another day pass.

-

It was Saturday morning and John awoke too early to do anything but amuse himself on the Internet. After ten minutes that turned into a life-sucking hour, John decided to do something a bit more productive: he checked his blog.

He didn’t know what he was going to write. And he hadn’t added a hit counter this time because what was the point? His friends and Harry didn’t know about this blog. The only person who knew was Dr. Thompson.

He went to read back on his only entry to get an idea of what to write next, when he noticed that his post had received a comment. John tensed. He steeled himself, reminding himself that this was an unnecessary reaction and it was probably some person asking if the site cost money or how to retrieve a password.

John clicked the comment from a person who chose to remain anonymous. It read: _You should check your e-mail._

Now he still wasn’t allowed to sweat because this was probably someone from work. He’d used his work e-mail to create this blog. It wasn’t even a secret – the e-mail address was displayed prominently on his profile page.

Still, this whole thing made him uneasy and he decided to put it off until he could think rationally.

-

A few hours later, John squinted at his computer screen as he opened his e-mail. More crap from that medical magazine, messages forwarded half a dozen times from Harry and a penis enlargement spam were all sent straight to the delete bin. Two messages from work sat, waiting to be read.

But there was also a message from an unfamiliar sender with no subject. John was about to delete it, but when he clicked to drag it, his eyes caught on the words.

_John, meet me here at noon.  
SH_

There was an attachment. 

It was obviously a scam. Some virus was attached to that e-mail. John knew better than to click it. He went to delete it.

But the thought snagged in his head: _“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”_

“No, no, this is definitely impossible,” John muttered.

“Did you call?” Mary asked from the kitchen.

“Er, no. Just… doing work.” He dragged the message into the delete folder.

There. He could wash his hands of that ridiculous notion and answer the important e-mails from work. He just needed to get back on track.

It wasn’t like he’d been private about the mysteries he solved with Sherlock. His old blog became famous, even for such a short time. Despite Sherlock’s defamation, people still craved that wit and mystery. Fictional detective stories were on the rise now after sparkling vampires. 

So of course someone connected John’s old blog with his new one. Of course a hacker wrote a message to John and signed it as Sherlock. There was no doubt this was all a sick prank.

So why was he dragging that message back out of the delete folder?

With a sigh, he double-clicked the attachment. Fine. He was getting a virus. Fantastic. 

Up popped a tab that linked to coordinates on Quest Maps*. John switched to the street view and zoomed in. The address was to a bookstore mere blocks from John’s new house.

John snapped his laptop closed and Mary poked her head into the sitting room as she tugged her handbag over her shoulder.

“I’m going out to pick up groceries,” she said. “I’ve got your credit card. Do you need anything?”

John scratched the side of his head and tried to look innocent. He glanced to the clock: 11:50.

“No, no, I just remembered I… have to be somewhere.” He leapt from his chair, leaving his laptop in the seat. As he tugged on his jacket, he fished for his wallet and keys, shoving them in his pocket.

“Should I bring us lunch?” she asked, watching him as though he were a particularly unusual breed of fish that suddenly swam into her house.

“No, I— that’s alright,” he said and rushed out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off "The Adventure of the Empty House" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. With inspiration from "The Sign of Four," "The Adventure of the Dancing Men," "The Man With The Twisted Lip," as well as the Kandahar Massacre.
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas Lozchic, Caenis, Asterose, Nathan, and Davina for putting up with rigorous deadlines and for supplying me with the necessary information to make this story so much better. You guys are the best!

John had gone mad. He’d sold his common sense for a moment of thrill. This outing could only end in disappointment, but the excitement, despite the expectation, left him feeling vibrant and alive for the first time in years.

But why a bookstore? Who even went to bookstores anymore?

This was just strange enough to come from Sherlock. 

The door dinged when John opened it. He stopped in the doorway to look around the shop. Despite the crowded street outside, only three people were in the bookstore. The shopkeeper was in his mid-twenties and was large enough to hide a coworker somewhere amid his girth. There was a woman browsing the romance novel section with a scarf obscuring the side of her face. Meanwhile, an old woman sat in the corner, reading a magazine she had no intention of buying.

The room stunk of old paper and ink, like stale cereal and rotting berries. John glanced at the shopkeeper and ducked his head as he made his way to the largest section: the mystery section.

It was no joke that detective stories were popular. Hardcover, paperback, bright colors, big text, everything was used to draw in the wandering eyes of readers. The first cover John pulled off the shelf showed the glinting image of a knife with glitter resembling faux blood spatter all across the paper. He swallowed and put the book back in its place.

Interestingly, the next book he pulled off the shelf depicted a young woman wearing that ridiculous deer stalker hat. John glanced around the room before flipping open to the summary.

“Shirley House, the world’s greatest detective, loves solving mysteries and getting her man. But what happens when her man gets her? When the mystery gets her in too deep over her head, it’s up to her partner to save her! But will James be able to find her and confess his feelings to her before it’s too late?”

John put the book back on the shelf, feeling ill. Was this what history had become? Some kind of twisted, gender-bending farce littered with forced romance? 

“It’s like desecrating a grave,” he muttered to himself. As he shook his head, he caught sight of the edge of a long black coat moving past the shelves.

It was just a flutter for an instant, but John dashed down the aisle and banked right to keep up. He gazed around the maze of bookshelves as his heartbeat echoed in his ears.

He shifted his way through, leaning against the young adult section with the religious section at his back, but didn’t catch sight of anything. The lady with the magazine scowled at him, so John tried to be more casual about it by standing tall instead of crouching like a maniac.

Was he really mad?

He scanned the area carefully as he stepped toward the science fiction section and, beside it, the ill-placed history section. He pinned his back against a wall of books devoted to World War I and turned his gaze back the way he came.

With his eyes glued on the entrance, he crept back, deeper into the bookstore, until he bumped into the lady in the romance section. She yelped like she’d been struck, which made John jump and ruined his concentration.

Her face was red and twisted up in anger. “Would you look where the hell you’re going?” she demanded.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, holding up his hands either to comfort or surrender. “I am so, so sorry. I was just—“

“You were what?” she snapped. “Creeping around a bookstore like a pervert? Hoping to bump into a woman, get a feel?”

“I wasn’t, I’m—“ And then, from the corner of his eye, he watched the tall figure with dark hair and the long black coat walk briskly past him.

John dropped the apology and ran after the man. “Sherlock!” he shouted despite the quiet surroundings. The figure didn’t stop.

John, close enough to touch now, grabbed the other man by the arm. The figure turned, balking with his round face and puffy, sagging eyelids. This man’s nose was short and squashed on his sickly, pale face. The long black hair, John noticed, was bedraggled and uncombed.

“What?” he stranger inquired, showing two rows of poorly-angled teeth.

“Sorry, I—“ John began. “You just… you looked like…” John stared past the other man and was struck with that familiar blank feeling, like a book with all its pages torn out. He had to get out of the store. The door chimed as he pushed his way out into the crowded sidewalk. And that’s where he stood, trying to regain some grasp on reality.

People bumped into him. He didn’t even mutter an apology. His legs didn’t work and his mind was completely halted after racing so fast.

He wanted to get away from this place. That became the motivation he needed to walk back towards his home where monotony could comfort him.

Halfway down the street, he reached into his pocket for his keys, but both they and his wallet were missing. John was certain that he’d brought them with him. However, with all the rush and this strange encounter, he couldn’t trust his own judgment.

“Shit,” he muttered, realizing that his mobile phone was home and that Mary had already left to pick up groceries. She’d definitely locked the door. He wasn’t about to break into his house, but John didn’t want to step back into that book store so soon to embarrass himself further. 

-

An hour later, Mary was unloading her groceries when she heard a knock. She hesitated a moment.

“It’s me,” John’s exhausted voice came from the other side. “I’ve locked myself out.”

Mary quickly unbolted the door and opened it. “Are you alright?” she asked with the sort of insistence most people use when asking “where have you been?”

“Yeah,” John muttered, feeling like he’d been hit by a cab twice. “Forgot my keys, I think.”

Mary looked to the basket by the door and pulled out his keys and wallet. “You sure did,” she said with a tiny twitch of a smile that turned into a sympathetic look. She reached up to touch the side of his face, which was clenched so tightly that new wrinkles looked carved in wood. Her fingers lingered on his face long enough to make both parties feel awkward.

“Um, so remind me to give you your credit card back. Do you want tea?” she offered, ducking into the kitchen.

“Okay,” John sighed. “And do you remember how to use the kettle?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mary muttered. “I just didn’t notice the little button last time.”

John shook his head and as soon as he was in the sitting room, he flopped into his armchair. He automatically opened his laptop. The Quest Maps screen was the first to greet him, and he closed the tab with enough pressure to threaten the safety of his mouse. 

That left him staring down the e-mail with the message that started this all.

_John, meet me here at noon,_  
 _SH_

John gritted his teeth as he looked at those words. No handwriting, no sound. The message didn’t snort derisively or go on a lengthy tirade about its merits. 

It wasn’t from Sherlock -- couldn’t be from Sherlock. Was it Mycroft? John hadn’t heard from him these past two years.

Or was this one of Moriarty’s followers?

With his index fingers, John cautiously typed a reply message: Who are you?

He hesitated before clicking “send.” Yes. Very well. Crazy is as crazy does. That was fine. He was getting up there in years: nothing else to do but yell at children playing in his lawn and go barking mad.

Mary came out of the kitchen with mugs of tea for herself and John. She perched on the couch and kept looking at him. Any time he turned, she looked away.

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke up. “Yes?” he smiled and blinked, making a poor show of trying to fit into a world that made no sense.

She opened her mouth to say one thing, but wound up saying another. “Are you still coming with me to the clinic tonight?” she asked.

John faded into a blank facial expression and nodded.

“I mean, won’t it mess up your work schedule?” she asked. “You really don’t have to.”

“It’s fine,” John said. “I said I’d go with you and I’ll do it.”

Mary clutched her mug in both hands. “If this is going to work, you really need to stop going out of your way for me.”

“I don’t go out of my way for you,” John insisted, but hesitated against those words.

Awkward embarrassment hung in the air. Mary turned her gaze down and reached out to pat John’s hand.

John shook his head, refusing to lose. “If the blood test results are decent, I promise I’ll come home and get some sleep,” he said.

“But they haven’t been…” she trailed off. “Listen, I was really upset when I asked you to come.”

“No, you listen: I’m a doctor,” John said as twitchy aggravation worked up his shoulder. “I’ve pulled all-nighters since I was a student. I’ll be fine.”

Mary looked at him and then smacked his arm.

“What?” he demanded.

“So that’s your game,” she said at last. “You think you’re some kind of superhero.”

“No, I’m nothing like that.”

 

John was checking his e-mail every few hours even after dinner. It was becoming a habit. He knew better than to expect a reply, but he couldn’t help thinking that maybe if he caught the message early enough, he might get hold of the messenger.

It was stupid and foolish, and Mary long since gave up on trying to understand why John was staring at his computer with such intensity. She turned to the television for small comfort, but kept nodding off.

John rubbed his face and stared at the screen when suddenly a new e-mail popped into his inbox. It was from that same unknown sender.

John blinked several times and looked around the room to be certain he wasn’t hallucinating. Though he wasn’t certain, he couldn’t bring himself to wait any longer.

He opened the message.

_John, meet me here,_  
 _SH_

John swallowed the lump in his throat and opened the attachment. 

The Quest Maps coordinates lead to 221 Baker Street.

John snapped his computer shut.

“John?” Mary started, jolted from her nap.

Amidst a flurry of emotion, John felt dread. This was a trap. One constructed in such a way that John could never walk away from it. It was so precise, so calculated and knew exactly where his weakness was even after two years.

If he didn’t go, he’d spend the rest of his life wondering in misery. If he did go, he was probably going to die.

John put down his computer on the coffee table. He bent over and kissed Mary on the cheek, as she stared up at him with mounting bewilderment.

“I’ll see you,” he murmured. He took a good look at his keys, wallet and cell phone before putting them in his pocket as he walked out the door.

 

John stepped out of the cab and stared up at the building. He hadn’t seen this part of Baker Street in two years. He traced his fingers over the numbers on the door where bits of paint peeled off.

The door flew open. John tensed. Then, he blinked. 

“M-Mrs. Hudson?” he asked.

“John!” she brightened. “Oh, come in, come in. It’s gotten dark out and he’s waiting for you upstairs. Can I take your coat?”

John stepped inside and grasped Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders. “Who is waiting for me?” he asked.

“Gave me a bit of a surprise,” she began with a chuckle. “See for yourself, dear. He’s right upstairs.”

John looked up the stairwell. “The lights are out,” John said and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are we in danger?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged and shook her head with a smile. “Not any more than usual, I’d say. He asked for me to keep the lights out. Go on up, then.”

John’s shaking hand rested against the railing as he approached the stairs. He stared up the blackened corridor and steeled himself. He was a military man, even if that was years ago. He’d looked death in the face and carried on.

Each step creaked beneath his feet and he felt his chest tighten with every breath. 

He arrived at the landing and glanced around the darkened sitting room. There was light streaming from a nearby building that allowed John to see the silhouettes of furniture. 

As his eyes adjusted, John noted that everything in the room looked exactly as it did two years ago, but with a thicker smell of dust and stale air.

John’s gaze moved to the lamp on the coffee table, then to the armchair where Sherlock always sat. Then, there was a rustle and John saw movement from the kitchen. He brandished the lamp and turned.

“John, put that down before you break something,” came that voice: that unmistakable, deep, self-satisfied voice.

John’s arm fell to his side. The lamp went down with it, and bobbed before it rolled across the floor.

“Sh…” John choked.

The much taller figure stooped and picked up the lamp, dusting it off. “Mrs. Hudson would be most disappointed if you broke it,” Sherlock said and placed it gingerly back on the corner table.

John’s hand moved to the arms of the nearest chair and he very quickly found himself sitting down. “But you…. You’re…”

“Yes, that’s not important,” Sherlock said, dismissing the thought. “What is important is your credit card, John. Where. Is. Your. Credit. Card?”

John flew out of his chair and grabbed Sherlock by his predictably loose scarf. “You made me think—“ John cut himself off. Punching Sherlock wouldn’t be enough. Killing him might be. His hold tightened on the scarf and he felt Sherlock’s hands on his wrists, prying him off.

“John, there isn’t time for this.”

“YOU made me think—You… My best friend. Made me think, two years, Sherlock!” John shoved the other man hard and felt tiny satisfaction as the taller man’s back hit the floor.

Sherlock shook himself off and moved to stand, but John’s heel was digging into his stomach.

“Two years and no WORD?”

Sherlock sighed at him. “John, could you try to keep it down?”

“I will NOT KEEP IT DOWN.” If he wasn’t already stepping on Sherlock, he would have found a way to punch him.

“You’re putting us in danger,” Sherlock hissed. “Now take your foot off of me and let me explain. We have limited time before someone hears your shouting and calls the police. Let me go, John.”

John, who was always so loyal and always did anything for Sherlock without expecting a reward, felt himself struggle against his restraints. He bit down against his fury and pulled away. “Fine. Explain yourself,” John said and took Sherlock’s armchair.

Sherlock dusted himself off and moved to stand. “I broke into your house earlier today to fi—“ he began.

“You, wait, _what?”_

“I didn’t break anything, John; I used your key,” Sherlock said and opened his mouth to continue.

“Stop. Stop,” John said. “You’re going to explain yourself because you haven’t explained a bloody thing in…”

“The meeting at the bookstore,” Sherlock said, tapping his foot as he stood with crossed arms. “I arranged to steal your wallet and keys while you were distracted.”

John steeled himself against the arms of the chair. “The man in your coat…”

“Homeless network. He quite liked the coat and he gave it a smell, so I let him keep it,” Sherlock said. “I sent you the e-mail and sent him into the bookstore to shake you up enough to cause you to go out into the street. I was waiting just outside the door in order to bump into you, pocket your keys and wallet—“

“Why my wallet…?” John was in a daze.

“That was obviously the first place to look for your credit card,” Sherlock explained. “When it wasn’t there, I began searching your house.”

“But I could’ve gone back to the house looking for my keys,” John said.

“I watched that woman lock the door when she left after you.”

“Woman? The Woman?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Your woman. Wife, whatever,” Sherlock waved dismissively.

“You’ve been spying on me…” John shook his head, blinking.

“Of course I have,” Sherlock replied.

“How long?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve been out of the country these past two years. I only returned a week ago when Mycroft told me the account was opened by Moran.”

“So you’ve been in contact with Mycroft,” John said. “You hate your brother.”

“Believe me when I say that I would’ve preferred to stay out of touch,” Sherlock said. “Be that as it may, Mycroft alerted me to this case and so I returned.”

“Hang on… I watched you fall off that building,” John said. This felt like some twisted dream.

“That was for your safety,” Sherlock explained. “But now my safety is compromised, hence our meeting in the dark.”

“In 221B?” John raised an eyebrow.

“This room has been empty two years,” Sherlock said. “If people are left keeping guard on this room they have become complacent.”

“And who the hell is Moran?” John wondered why nothing made a bit of sense, and yet he was accepting everything Sherlock said.

“That’s not for you to know,” Sherlock said.

“You need my help, don’t you?” John said. “That’s why you’ve brought me here – risking our lives, so you said. I won’t help until you tell me what’s going on.”

“You’ll find out everything in pieces,” Sherlock said. “I need your card.”

That wasn’t the least bit satisfactory, but John was already nodding. “Fine, take the bloody thing,” he said and fished into his pocket for his wallet. He threw the credit card at Sherlock, who caught it with ease.

Sherlock tugged out his old laptop and blew the dust off it. As it booted up, John shook his head in disbelief.

“Does that thing still work?” he asked. “Does Mrs. H even have Internet anymore?”

“Quiet,” Sherlock murmured, clasping the credit card between his hands in a prayer-like position as he concentrated.

John tensed against Sherlock’s antagonistic lack of social skills. He felt his patience wane far sooner than it once did. “You’re booting up a laptop, not dissecting an eyeball,” he said. “Oh, that brings back memories,” he murmured and rubbed at his face.

“Almost there…” Sherlock said with his eyes closed as the desktop came into view.

In this strange moment of calm, John began to absorb all of the information of the past ten minutes. “Two years. And not a word. And now it’s like—“

“John,” Sherlock cautioned.

“It’s like you’ve never been gone. Like everything should just go back to the way it was.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and began to type. John rested his head in his hand and looked decidedly away from the other man.

Sherlock made an exclamation of success and spun the laptop around to face John. John glanced at the screen and turned to look away before he caught sight of the image.

“That’s my credit statement,” John began.

“Yes, good,” Sherlock said without masking his frustration at the other man’s slowness.

“Why’re you—“ 

“Do you see the extra expenses?” Sherlock demanded, pointing at lines on the screen. “One pound here, five there, do you see?”

John stared at the screen as if it might suddenly up and walk away. “… that my credit card company overcharges me?” 

“But for what?” Sherlock pressed, excited and vibrant and anxious as ever. “These charges aren’t attached to any transactions. Money is being withdrawn without your notice.”

John blinked, let out his held breath and shook his head. “No, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” he said as he licked the bitter disappointment from his lips. “Mary’s been using the card lately.”

“Mary?” it was hard to tell if this was a derisive snort or a question.

“My wife, thank you,” John snapped. “Or my ‘woman,’ as you put it. She’s been using my card and she probably withdraws money from it rather than paying directly. That always has surcharges. I’ll just have a word with her.”

Sherlock was already shaking his head with a sick chuckle. “You’ve no idea.” He clicked one of the one-pound transactions and showed it to John. “That’s a bank account. That money is going to another person’s account without your knowledge or consent.”

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So you’re saying my credit card has been hacked? For a couple of pounds a month? That’s insane.”

“No, it’s brilliant,” Sherlock murmured in appreciation.

“No. It’s stupid,” John corrected. “Why would someone go to all that trouble for such an insignificant amount of money?”

Sherlock growled. “You are so naive sometimes it shocks me. It must be so lovely in that little mind of yours.”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Yours isn’t the only card this is happening to,” Sherlock said slowly so that John wouldn’t miss the importance. “There could be hundreds of cards that are having money withdrawn every month. And it’s all going to the same place: a bank account created by Sebastian Moran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Do you like what you’ve read? Share this story with your friends! Feel free to leave a comment below.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off "The Adventure of the Empty House" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. With inspiration from "The Sign of Four," "The Adventure of the Dancing Men," "The Man With The Twisted Lip," as well as the Kandahar Massacre.
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas Lozchic, Caenis, Asterose, Nathan, and Davina for putting up with rigorous deadlines and for supplying me with the necessary information to make this story so much better. You guys are the best!

Nearly an hour later, John was trying to piece together what little Sherlock explained to him.

"So you think Greg… er, that’s Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson's cards have been hacked as well," John said. "Hang on, does that mean you pick-pocketed Lestrade again?"

"Thinking," Sherlock murmured with his hands pressed together in front of his face. He was disgustingly relaxed in his chair.

"Don't give me that. Surely you've brought me here for my input; not to have me stand around and watch you in your grandeur."

Sherlock slid his feet up onto the cushion of his chair and squatted where he sat. "We're looking for a man at the center of a massive credit card scam who puts his real name on the bank account. What's the first question that comes to mind?"

"W... well, what's the money going to?" John suggested.

Sherlock folded his hands, his elbows pressed into his knees. "Good," he wore a snide smile.

"But," John started. "Maybe it's something simple like his rent or credit card."

"Wrong," Sherlock said. "I've looked into his records. Sebastian Moran hasn't paid a bill in over two years. When he abandoned his flat, he left all of his personal belongings still inside."

As John listened, he realised he was forgetting something. He pulled his mobile out to check the time and saw instead a text message from Mary.

 _still coming tonight?_ it said. Another message followed. _u don't have to_

John closed the message and checked the time. Ten minutes until ten and there was no way to make it to the clinic that soon. He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to the stairs.

"I have to go," he said, tugging his coat back on.

"Go?" Sherlock asked with disbelief plain on his face. "We're in the middle of a case."

"This is important.”

"What could possibly be more important than a case?" Sherlock demanded.

John clenched his hands at his sides. "A lot of things. This is one of them."

-

John arrived at the clinic barely a half hour later. He left his name at the receptionist’s desk and worked his way to the back where Mary lay in a recliner. The machine beside her beeped occasionally as a series of tubes fed liquid into and out of her left arm. Her eyes were puffy and red, but closed.

John touched her good arm and she awoke with a start. He opened his mouth to tell her how sorry he was to be late. He was going to tell her that he’d do anything to make things right.

Instead, she said his name in such a shaking, feeble, grateful way that there weren’t words for a reply. He pulled up a chair to sit beside her and took the hand that wasn’t surrounded by tubes and wires. 

He looked at the little table beside her and spotted a mug. “Obsessed with tea now?” he asked.

She chuckled, which turned into a wet cough. There was a sick bucket nearby that a nurse brought over to her. But Mary shook her head and cleared her throat. “You really didn’t have to come,” she murmured.

“Don’t start,” he warned. “How’s the blood work?” 

Mary frowned and tilted her head back. “Not… any better,” she said. Her hand tightened around his. “Thanks for being here.”

“You thought I wouldn’t keep my promise?” he tried to tease, but the thought of the abandoned case hung heavy in his mind. “Go back to sleep. I’ll watch you.”

Her lips trembled as they slid into a smile. 

-

John’s life fell back into its mundane pattern. He woke up, went to work at the clinic, came home, and watched telly. Mary typically ordered them takeaway and fell asleep in the middle of every programme.

John knew it was genuinely typical for him to wonder if his encounter with Sherlock was a dream: his brain’s way of reminding him of his bygone days. Whether or not that was true, John pondered if that was just a blip of excitement in his otherwise dull life. He convinced himself that life from this point forward was normal.

However, as he walked toward the pub during his lunch break three days later, he got a call from an old, familiar number: Mycroft’s mobile.

“No, I get it – this is real,” John said as his phone continued to ring in his hand. “You can…. stop ringing then.”

He couldn’t answer it. Mycroft’s calls were a facet of his old life he really wasn’t ready to confront now.

Mycroft, never one to take a hint, left a voice message. And because he refused to be left unheard, he sent a text message. John tried to ignore that as well, but found himself giving in to the curiosity.

 _Lunch, doctor?_ That was all the message said. John’s knee-jerk reaction was to shove the phone back in his pocket. 

A black car began to slow a few paces behind him. He glanced at it and, in the manner by which he was raised, ignored it as if that might cause it to disappear.

Another text: _Get in the car._

The back passenger’s window rolled down and there sat Anthea: pristine, beautiful and completely aloof, with her eyes glued to her mobile phone. John was reluctant for a moment longer before he walked around the car and climbed into the seat beside her. He frowned and stared ahead of himself while her fingers glided over the buttons on the keypad.

John licked his lips and looked around as the car picked up speed. He cleared his throat. Finally, he peeked at her out of the corner of his eye. She made no move to respond.

“So I’m married now,” he said, trying to boast, but it sounded more like he was seeking her approval.

“Ah,” she replied, her gaze unwavering from her mobile.

John was silent a moment longer. Then, he rubbed the crease from the knee of his slacks. “And… you?” he asked.

She finally looked at him and smiled politely. She immediately went back to texting.

-

John went straight to the back of the Diogenes Club, through the closed double-doors of Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft looked up from his newspaper and smiled like a salamander. “I took the liberty of calling your workplace to tell them you’d need the afternoon off.” 

Mycroft had gained weight. It wasn’t an obvious change: how there was a slight strain in the fabric of his shirt where it was carefully tucked. His belt was latched on the fourth loop rather than the second and his slacks hung vaguely higher around his ankles.

John stood stiffly and stilled his expression, though one eyebrow worked its way upwards. “Okay, Mycroft, why did you send for me?”

“Take a seat,” Mycroft said, waving his hand.

“Nnnno. I haven’t heard from you in two years and now suddenly I’m here.”

Mycroft poured himself a drink. “I’m sure you have an inkling as to why you’re here. Tea?”

John gritted his teeth. “No thanks. And I have a few ideas.”

“A few ideas?” Mycroft remarked. “Well, let me make this easier on you. Saturday at 11:50 in the morning, you read an e-mail from my brother. After receiving another e-mail at 8: 42 that evening, you met with him in person at 221B Baker Street. I honestly expected you two to be a little more discreet, but then, that’s never been my brother’s style.”

John clenched both hands into fists. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Merely your support in this delicate situation,” Mycroft replied. “To ensure the safety of my brother, I ask that you refrain from meeting with him further.”

John shook his head. “Do you forget, Mycroft, how it was your carelessness – your utter lack of – that lead to all this?”

“Not a day goes by where I have the luxury of forgetting,” Mycroft said gravely. “That being said, my brother has done a fairer job staying away from trouble while out of contact with you. I fear for his safety: he is my responsibility, after all.”

“He contacted me first.”

“For your credit card, yes,” Mycroft replied. “There are easier ways of accessing your information that don’t require breaking-and-entering, but as I mentioned about my brother and his love of flare…”

“I haven’t even seen him since,” John said. “Why do you think he’d meet with me again?”

“Because I’ve known my brother quite a lot longer than you have. And if anything, he is a creature of habit in the most predictable ways.”

Hearing Mycroft talk was like listening a favorite radio station gone out of range. There were traces of familiar sounds, engulfed in jarring noise.

“He will come back to you and you will have to make it clear that you’re no longer interested in playing detective with him,” Mycroft said. “We have a police force for a reason, and they’re successful without Sherlock.”

“No, actually,” John snapped. “The police need him as they always have. And maybe if you helped to remove the more incompetent… Sherlock would be safe enough to help them.”

“I must insist,” Mycroft said at length. “I am beseeching from one brother to another: don’t guide Sherlock back down this path.”

John was already shaking his head as he moved to leave.

“You will take my side soon enough, John,” Mycroft said.

“I have to go back to work – to do my job,” John said. “Don’t drag me out here again.”

-

After work, John took a cab. But when the driver asked for an address, he offered Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson did not answer the door with the expected pleasant surprise. Instead, she looked at John with concern. “You want to come in?” she hissed. “Now?”

John was at a loss for words. “Well, I was really hoping to use the upstairs,” he said. He sniffed. “Are you wearing perfume?”

Mrs. Hudson struggled for words. “I’m entertaining an old friend,” she said. Her blouse was fashionable, ruffled and more low-cut than John was prepared for. “Oh, this just won’t do,” she murmured to herself.

“Sorry, I—should I come back later?” he asked. Leaving with his pride intact was ultimately more important than the reason that brought him here.

“Oh, it’s too late now,” she said. “Do you promise to stay upstairs?”

“Yes,” John breathed. There wasn’t a chance he was coming anywhere near her flat. He’d sooner crawl out the window than stumble upon her “entertaining a friend.”

She let him in.

“Just… one thing,” he said, feeling more foolish with each passing second. “D’you think I could borrow your laptop?”

-

John shifted the Union Jack pillow behind him as he settled into his dusty chair in his former flat. Mrs. Hudson’s archaic computer took five minutes longer to start than John’s patience was willing to endure. Still, it was a load better than the awkward wait downstairs when John was hastily introduced to Mrs. Hudson’s “friend” Peter.

He accessed his e-mail account – thank goodness she still had Wi-Fi – and typed a message to the e-mail address that started it all. 

_Meet me here_ , he typed, but he couldn’t figure out how to attach a webpage to the message so he quickly added: _You know where._

The reply was instant. _Are you implying that you’ve solved my case for me?_

 _No, but come anyway,_ John took much longer to type. _Where are you?_

 _Walking down Melcombe St,_ came the reply.

 _On the street?_ John wrote. _On a mobile? Yours went missing after you disappeared._

 _Really, John, do you think it is beyond my means to purchase a new phone?_ Sherlock replied.

-

The tall, lean figure ducked into the sitting room of 221B so quickly that John didn’t recognise him. He curled up onto the couch like a cat, but kept glancing towards the windows with the fervor of a squirrel. After a moment, he spoke.

“There’s still daylight – I expected you to use a bit more discretion,” Sherlock said. Finally, he rose and tugged the curtains closed on both sets of windows. 

“Yes, well, I’ve a source who told me that’s not really your style,” John said.

Sherlock’s lips quirked into a fake smile, like the one he offered to Henry more than two years ago. “I suppose your source is correct,” he said.

“Rarely,” John said and then he really looked at Sherlock. Sherlock, unlike his brother, had gotten skinnier: the dip in his cheeks was apparent enough to give him the appearance of a gaunt apparition. His new coat hung too loose around him and his hair, though combed, veered off the course of “handsomely long” into “dangerously shaggy” territory. 

The taller man crouched back down onto the couch, braced as if an assailant would jump up the staircase at any time. He was more feral than human, like this. John doubted that he could’ve recognised this Sherlock in a crowded room.

“Tell me what you’ve found about the case,” Sherlock said.

John was thrown off. “Well, not…. actually anything yet,” he admitted. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows creased. “But your e-mail."

“Yes, er, you… could use my help."

“I work better alone.".

“You’ve always worked better with someone to talk to,” John said. “Unless, well, you have a new skull now.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Customs took it.”

“You’re… oh, you’re serious,” John breathed. “Right, well, I’m not as convenient as a skull, but maybe I can help.”

Sherlock squinted at John a long moment. John felt Sherlock’s eyes categorise every piece of him: the cardigan, the trousers that had a bit of lint stuck by the ankle, the comfortable shoes that barely passed as work-appropriate, the haircut, the bit of crumb on the corner of his lips that he was now distinctly aware of.

Finally, Sherlock looked away. “Sebastian Moran has been working under Moriarty for at least four years,” he said. “He started helping with some of the more basic exploits and he was arrested – but not tried – as an arms dealer on more than one occasion.

“Within the same month that Moriarty was finally put on trial, all records of Moran vanished – no phone, rent or credit card expenses were linked to his name,” Sherlock said. “It was as though he’d disappeared entirely. But we both know better.”

“But what exactly has this Moran fellow been up to?” John asked. “You said he did the more basic things. Why would Moriarty want him to disappear?”

“That’s the wrong question,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“It’s obvious why he made him disappear,” he continued. “Moran proved his trustworthiness and Moriarty needed him for much more important jobs – jobs that couldn’t be traced back to him. No, the question you should be asking is why did Moriarty put him back on our radar?”

This unusual way of thinking once made John admire Sherlock, but now left him miserable and irritated. “So… so you think Moriarty left a message for Moran to make this bank account? Like– like a will or something?”

Sherlock snorted derisively. He opened his mouth to reply, but John beat him to it.

“You…” John felt that his breath was difficult to grasp. “You think Moriarty’s still alive.”

“Of course he is,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh my god,” John breathed and leaned back in his chair.

It took ten minutes and a cup of tea for both men to be willing to continue the conversation. John was silently grateful that the old kettle still worked so he needn’t trouble Mrs. Hudson.

“You never mentioned Moran before,” John said.

“That’s because he wasn’t of interest until now,” Sherlock replied as he lounged on the couch, much more cat than squirrel now.

“Surely you haven’t been spying on him as well."

Sherlock smirked. “No."

"Then how did you..?"

"You’d think Scotland Yard would guard its secrets a little more closely."

John found it difficult to contain his amusement, but he carried on with questions. “And this Moran fellow, is he a genius also?”

“No, no,” Sherlock replied. “Moriarty would never make that mistake. He wouldn’t deal with the incompetence of another person who thinks he is smart, but doesn’t have the cards to prove it. No, if Moriarty wanted someone to trust, that person couldn’t try to steal the spotlight.”

“Erm… I think you’ve missed the purpose of explaining this to me,"

Sherlock sat up. "He needed brute strength," he explained. “He needed someone who wasn’t afraid to take orders and fire a gun." 

“A military man,” John pressed his lips into a tight line. “Like me."

Sherlock looked at him and said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like what you’ve read? Share this story with your friends! Feel free to leave a comment below.


	4. Chapter 4

John pulled out his mobile and scrolled through his contact list.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

“Proving I’m more than brute strength,” John said. His thumb settled on the name he was looking for and he clicked Send. He listened to the ringback tone – Chopan or something, which didn’t seem to suit his friend – and prayed the number hadn’t changed.

“Hi, you’ve reached Bill Murray. I’m not available so leave a message.”

“Bill, hi, this is John,” he started. “Listen, I was wondering if you heard of a man named Sebastian Moran. Give me a call back – the number’s the same.”

John hesitated, feeling guilty. “A-and we should do drinks sometime,” he said and hung up. 

“This is how you’re proving yourself?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. “The man you described could very likely have been in the military,” he said. “And if he was discharged shortly before he started working for Moriarty three years ago—“

“Four years ago.”

“Fine, all right, that means that he likely served around the same time I did.”

“So you think the answer will be as easy as a phone call to an army nurse,” Sherlock said. 

John grimaced, fighting the urge to fling furniture. “Have you got a better lead?” Sherlock was silent. “Scotland Yard didn’t have all the answers, did it?”

Sherlock sat up. “Should I have said ‘good work’?”

John caught on his words a moment. “Yeah, actually,” he said, fighting against his own sheepishness.

“But you haven’t done anything yet,” Sherlock said.

John bit his lip and stood, shoving his fist in his pocket to keep it out of trouble. “You are so unbelievably irritating – I wonder how I ever lived with you.”

Sherlock watched as if fascinated. “Well, that’s not a concern any longer.”

“No, it isn’t,” John said. “And I’m leaving now.”

-

During the morning news, John received Bill’s return call. They followed the typical routine of two mates who hadn’t spared a moment to catch up in years: they asked about each other’s families, lightly inquired about work, and swore they would chat in-person.

“That guy you mentioned – Sebastian something –“ Bill began.

“Moran, right,” John said. Mary glanced at him before she returned to watching the news.

“I racked my brain, John, honestly,” Bill went on. “I’ve phoned everyone I could think of, but I just don’t know a man by that name who served with us.”

John pressed his lips together as he fought down the disappointment. “No, it’s fine,” he said and smiled like a grimace.

“I’ll keep looking,” Bill swore. “But, listen, you and me, drinks sometime soon.”

“Absolutely,” John sighed and hung up.

He opened his laptop and went to his e-mail client before he could think further on it. His instinct was to report his lack of progress to Sherlock. He could just imagine Sherlock with his coat collar turned up, sneering. “I suppose brute strength suits you after all,” he imagined Sherlock saying.

With a huff, John closed his laptop and folded his arms. He turned his attention to the news, but couldn’t concentrate.

“Work problems?” Mary asked. 

He wasn’t prepared for conversation. “Er… yes – well, sort of,” he said.

“Ah,” she said as if she understood. She stared at the television set a long moment. Then she raised an eyebrow. “Not-work?” she offered.

“Just… getting in touch with a friend,” he said. It wasn’t a lie.

“Pretty frustrating friend,” Mary suggested.

John breathed a mix between a sigh and a snort. “That… is probably the most fitting description, yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s brilliant, but… completely unmanageable. Impossible to get on with, but I did. We were… we made an incredible team.”

Mary watched him silently as he spoke. When no further words hung in the air, she sipped her coffee. “If you don’t mind my saying, he sounds like a real prick,” she said. 

John folded his hand over his mouth, which was betraying him with a smile. 

“Just because you got along with him once doesn’t mean you can go back to that,” she said. “You’re not his doormat.”

John shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said. “It’s… complicated.”

“I understand ‘complicated,’” Mary said and smiled like she was sharing a secret.

John ducked his head with a smile and opened his laptop again. He glanced back at her and saw she was still looking at him, so he reached over and took her hand.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I think you and I… we’re very uncomplicated people,” he said.

She chuckled. “Or so we’ve become. I don’t know, I was never this… domestic.”

“You’re still a menace in the kitchen,” John said.

Mary grinned. “Just because you’re afraid of a little grease-fire…”

“You were the one who woke me for the number to call the fire department,” John replied.

“I panicked,” she said. “It makes life interesting.”

John glanced to the laptop’s screen and saw that he had a new e-mail. _What did Murray say?_ Sherlock asked.

John retracted his hand from hers and squinted at his computer. There was a webcam built into the top that he never used. He thumbed at it. He had no idea how to remove it from his computer.

John leaned back in his seat, licked his lips and typed a response. _Are you spying on me?_

 _Obviously,_ came the instant reply.

John sucked in a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Mary politely turned back to the news.

 _Murray doesn’t know anything,_ John typed.

It was amazing how quickly the response came. _I could have told you that._

John rolled his eyes and seriously contemplated hefting his laptop into its bag and leaving it there as punishment. Instead he typed: _Where are you?_

_Banking._

“Banking?” John murmured. He typed: _Tower 42?_

“John?” Mary murmured. “You have to be at work in an hour.”

John mumbled a curse under his breath. He had a feeling that he should just call in sick now and get it over with; Sherlock was bound to throw a distraction in his path.

 _No,_ Sherlock replied. And that seemed like the end. The newscasters got onto talking about the weather and John began to worry that this might be a normal day after all. 

Nearly at the end of the broadcast, another e-mail popped into his inbox.

 _Print out the attachment,_ Sherlock said. _Take it to Lloyds Banking and ask for the paperwork from when you opened the account._

Inside the attachment were a bank account number, a PIN, and various other bits of information. The name at the top said Sebastian Moran – John wasn’t surprised.

-

An hour later, John stood outside the bank. He’d dressed and left like he was going to work, but while he caught a cab, he called out sick. He clutched the papers in his hands and muttered to himself as he stared up at the Lloyds mascot.

“So just have me masquerade around as some criminal,” he said. “Can’t be buggered to do it yourself. Have to make me get my hands dirty.”

John was scared. He was scared they’d think he was Moran and arrest him. He was scared that they’d figure out he’s not Moran and arrest him. John was doing something very blatantly illegal and, in the typical Sherlockian fashion, completely dangerous.

He stepped into a queue that rapidly grew shorter. It was his turn to talk to a bank representative far before he was ready and he stumbled over his words.

“I-I opened an account here,” John said. He was certain the representative didn’t believe a word out of his mouth. “A while back. Um, though I don’t quite remember when. I need, well… I need the paperwork again, I think. I just… it’s misplaced and…”

“All right there?” the representative asked.

“Yes, um, a bit nervous,” John admitted.

“People lose paperwork all the time.” He smiled at John in a way that seemed friendly. “I’m going to need your account number and your PIN. We’re just going to verify your information.”

“Verify” was a frightening word in this situation. However, after two minutes and a very tasteless cup of tea, John received the paperwork and was wished a nice day.

-

“Lunch break at home?” Mary asked as John stepped inside. “I haven’t even made anything. I think there’s a leftover… something in the fridge.”

He hated lying to her, but wasn’t ready to fully explain himself. He was still on edge from his trip to the bank as he opened his laptop and e-mailed Sherlock.

 _I have the paperwork,_ he typed. _Where do I meet you?_

Mary, meanwhile, was sifting through the cabinets in the kitchen. “We have tuna,” she called.

“I, er, I’m all right,” he called. The thought of her preparing a meal for him, even uncooked, made him more nervous.

Sherlock took another minute to reply. _Outside, follow the man in my coat._

“What?” John hissed at the screen.

“What?” Mary called.

“Nothing, I’m just—“ he fumbled to put his laptop down and he dashed out the door.

-

John paced his block, scouring for signs of an unsubtle, long black coat. He managed to look past the target three times before his eyes finally settled on the stranger from the bookstore. 

The man in the coat meandered down the block. John started to follow a few paces away. The dark-haired stranger glanced at an ancient watch on his wrist and started moving with purpose.

Traffic formed amidst the cars on the busy streets. The dark-haired man moved easily between stopped cars, ignoring all the laws of crosswalks. John hurried to keep up and nearly got run over. One lady slammed down her brakes so hard they squealed and she hollered something quite rude to John.

The man in the coat turned left and disappeared down the street. John started jogging to catch up. The stranger broke into a run. He ducked down a thin, one-way road and leapt over garbage cans.

John hesitated when the other man leapt a fence and turned down the street. Shaking his head, John climbed the unsteady chain links and barely avoided landing on his face on the other side.

He dashed after the other man who led them right back down a previous street. The man looked back over his shoulder at John and the fear was evident on his puffy face. John slowed down and held back a moment.

Finally, the stranger ducked into a hotel. John followed at a pace that was too quick to be “leisurely.” The man in the coat brushed past people and moved into an elevator. John ran to catch up and thankfully the doors remained open until he arrived to stand next to the stranger he’d been trailing. The stranger refused to look right at him, though he was twitchy, agitated.

On the third floor, the man in the coat got off and wandered slowly down the hall. John got off on the same floor, but didn’t want to alarm the man further. John pulled out his wallet and stopped in front of the first door on the right.

“Just, you know, this is my room,” John said to him, a failed attempt at “normalcy.” 

The stranger looked around, but didn’t say anything. Finally, he stopped in front of 325 and banged on the door.

As soon as the door was open, the man in the coat tumbled inside, shouting. He grasped hold of Sherlock’s shoulder.

John dashed over to 325 and Sherlock nodded curtly at him.

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock brushed the other man’s hand away. “You can go now,” he said to the man in his coat, who looked back at John with wide eyes. The bedraggled man kept his head low and visibly shook as he walked past John back towards the elevators.

John shook his head and stepped inside. After John’s incredulity settled a moment, he spoke. “Did you even warn the man that I’d be following him?” John asked.

Sherlock sat at his desk with his back to John. He made a contemplative noise. “Do you think I should have?” he inquired.

John bit his lip against the agitation and complete disbelief. “Here’s the bloody paperwork,” he said as he reached into his back pocket to unfold it. He tossed the papers onto Sherlock’s desk.

Sherlock spread the papers out on top of the existing mess. “You seem tense,” he murmured as his gaze roved over the details of the bank account.

“Yeah, well, I did just run your errands, pretending to be a criminal and all, when I was supposed to be at work,” John snapped. “And then I had to chase down the man you sent for me to follow.” 

Sherlock made a pleased sound. “Excellent,” he murmured.

John rolled his eyes. “Glad I could provide entertainment.”

“No, look – look at it,” Sherlock said and pointed to a line on the page.

John seriously contemplated telling Sherlock where he could shove that paperwork. Instead, he obediently looked down to where Sherlock pointed.

“Do you understand?” Sherlock said, excitement glinting in his eyes.

“Not a bit,” John muttered.

Sherlock was caught off-guard. He blinked at John, unsure if this was a joke. “The name,” he said. “The cosigner on this account is Ronald Adair. It all makes sense.”

John licked his lips. “Er… no, nope, not getting it,” he said.

“Ronald Adair – the man who was shot through his window a week ago; the case that’s using Scotland Yard’s ‘finest,’” Sherlock explained. “I knew his death was related to Moran but I didn’t understand the connection until now.” Sherlock moved to his feet, pacing the room. “But why? Why would he help Moran open a bank account? What’s the reason? The purpose?” Sherlock grabbed at a tuft of his own hair and pulled. John wished he could help by hitting the other man over the head.

“Yes, well,” John interrupted. “If that’s all, I’ll be going to work now.”

Sherlock dropped his hands from his head and stared at John. John could practically see the data processor Sherlock called a “brain” defragging and organizing.

“You’re cross with me,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” John said. “Good.”

“What for?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” John snapped. “Reasons, I suppose.” He gritted his teeth and steeled his hands, which were rapidly balling into fists. He couldn’t remember Sherlock being this naive. Was it selective memory? 

“Well, go on then,” Sherlock said. “I can’t waste time on this case concentrating on your concerns. Say it.”

“When did you start lying to me?” John asked.

“Why are you calling me a liar?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m not calling you one – I’m asking.”

Sherlock turned on him. “Of all the times to start believing my defamation, you choose now?”

“That’s not-“ John started, blinking furiously. He wiped his hand over his mouth like he could brush the words away. “You lied about your suicide, the body…. for two years. I’d simply like to know how far back this goes.”

Sherlock smirked and shook his head. His hands moved into his pockets and his foot rested on the desk chair. “Your necessity to simplify things is predictable at best,” he replied. “However, I can tell you’re looking for confrontation. Go on; tell me what I lied about.”

“It wasn’t actually you on that building,” John tried.

“Oh, that was me,” Sherlock said.

John’s lips twisted. “Then it wasn’t you on the pavement with your head all…” he couldn’t say it. He gesticulated to where the lacerations were.

“Still me,” Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together. “Though it is interesting to watch your mind work through this.”

“I felt for your pulse,” John said. 

“You were in shock – you couldn’t be expected to give an accurate reading,” Sherlock said. “I also slipped myself a rather strong sedative before the phone call. It took full affect before I jumped into the trolley of the truck – oh, but you didn’t see that truck because it pulled away before you arrived.”

“Trolley…” John repeated, his voice dead to his ears. 

“Yes, well, most of us can’t survive a fall off a four-story building,” Sherlock said. “Unless, of course, there’s a padded landing.”

“You jumped into a padded truck…” The urge to kill Sherlock was rapidly rising inside John. Maybe if he strangled him…

“And was lowered safely to the ground. Did that answer your questions so that we can return to this case?” he asked brightly, mockingly.

“The blood,” John tried.

“Still mine,” Sherlock said and lifted a patch of hair to show a large scar on his forehead.

“The autopsy,” John insisted. “Whose body—“

“Mine again,” Sherlock said. “I enlisted Molly’s aid beforehand. She had a camera with a faulty memory card record the process and faked the whole ordeal.”

The little vein at the side of John’s neck bulged. “She told me you were dead,” he ground out.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock replied. “She told that to many people; don’t be offended.”

“I watched them bury you,” John growled.

“Yes, and I was indeed in that casket,” Sherlock replied. “There’s a four-hour air supply in a buried casket. More if the person is meditating or sedated – I was both.”

John finally understood the meaning of the phrase “past yelling.” He felt weak all through his limbs. “So they dug you up…”

“Molly did, yes,” Sherlock replied. “With the aid of a few trusted allies.”

“Homeless network…” John breathed. “Why Molly? Why not… me?”

Sherlock was silent a moment. “Her safety wasn’t a concern,” he said.

“Because you don’t think she’s important?” John snapped.

“No,” Sherlock murmured like appreciating a masterpiece. “Because she’s more important than Moriarty ever imagined. Because his biggest mistake was in thinking that she was irrelevant. She’s really rather resourceful.”

That was the first compliment John heard out of Sherlock’s mouth since they were reunited. He was at a loss for words.

But he was still lacking two years’ worth of information and the easiest way to get answers from Sherlock was to ply him with questions.

“So, what, you travelled the world?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured.

“Became a detective in… the Sudan or something?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and for a moment John thought his expression bordered on affectionate. “I was the Norwegian explorer Erik Sigerson,” he said. “You probably haven’t heard of him… Mycroft did his best to keep me out of the limelight.”

“Hang on – explorer?” John asked. “You just… can’t have a normal job, can you?” His lips trembled against a laugh. This was entirely unfair. “But not a detective?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Well, why not?”

Sherlock rested his hand on his desk. “I didn’t have the drive for it anymore,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.”

John felt his own smile slip. “And yet, here you are,” he said. 

“I suppose I wasn’t meant to stay away from it for long,” Sherlock said. “Exploring is all well and good, but the hygiene is rather awful.”

John snorted. “Says the man who lies about in his pyjamas for days on end,” he said.

“At least I managed to get my shaving in,” Sherlock replied. He scratched at his face and winced. “In Norway, I had an… enormous beard. Fantastic disguise, but a wretched waste.”

John’s mobile rang: it was Bill. 

As soon as the phone was to John’s ear, Bill said: “I think I’ve found him.”

John steeled himself. “Where are you?” he asked, keeping his tone even.

“In my sitting room; it’s where we keep the computer.”

“All right, just… don’t move. We’ll come find you.”

“No, I think you misunderstand,” Bill said. “I Quest searched him. My daughter doesn’t lie when she says Quest is God. Anyway, I think I found him, but the name’s not quite right.”

“Is he military?” John asked.

“Yeah, and American,” Bill said. “Hang on, let me read it to you.” John could hear Bill typing at his keyboard before the man continued. “It says here that he was on trial for shooting up a village in Afghanistan at night – it was a massacre. He was a colonel, but the article’s about four years old now.”

“What was the result?” John asked.

“Not guilty, surprisingly,” Bill said. “Still, he was dishonorably discharged, stripped of his title and so on. I can’t find what happened to him after, though I’m not surprised. I’m sure he wanted a quiet life away from reporters. Does this sound like the man you were looking for?”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, it does,” he said. “You said the name’s different.”

“Yeah, it’s not Sebastian Moran,” Bill said. “It’s Sebastian Morstan.”

A tingling loss of feeling spread through John’s arms. He licked his lips and let his mobile hang away from his ear. He heard Bill calling for him at the other end, but it was several seconds before he offered Bill his thanks and a hasty goodbye.

“As I thought,” Sherlock said. His arms were folded comfortably in front of himself as he leaned back in his chair.

“It’s just a coincidence,” John murmured, his voice haggard to his own ears.

“Are you looking at the evidence, John?”

“She’s my _wife_ ,” John snapped. “That may mean nothing to you...”

“I’m merely organizing the facts,” Sherlock reminded him. “You also made the connection.”

“No, I— She’s not involved with this.”

“She was desperate for a visa. You don’t even know anything about her past.”

“Yeah, seems to be a habit,” John heaved a sigh. “She needed a visa because she’s dying. There, I’ve said it.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “She said the free clinics in America were a death wish. Came here for the cheaper healthcare, but the family that hired her let her go when they found out about her kidney failure.”

“Improbable,” Sherlock said at length.

“People do ridiculous things when children are involved.”

“First there are the telltale bumps on her left arm: two large bumps, where the catheter is – visible at the bicep even when she wears long sleeves. The scars on her arm are old and faded, implying that she has been receiving haemodialysis for a number of years – ten to be precise.” Sherlock said. “Yes, she was a nanny, but no, the family was already aware of her health condition.

“It’s too simple, really,” Sherlock carried on. “She had connections with the family that helped bring her to London, doing her a favor, but they discovered something that she was hiding: something that could put them in danger, so they fired her. Whether it was medical bills or something more interesting, she needed to stay out of America.”

John watched Sherlock silently a moment. “When you said you were spying on us, I didn’t think you’d done such a thorough job of it.”

“You have some questions to ask your wife,” Sherlock said.

-

John dragged himself through the front door of his house. The light was on in the sitting room, but Mary wasn’t on the couch as John expected. Instead, Molly sat, completely recognizable if not for the fitted suit and makeup, with a book in hand.

As soon as her eyes landed on him, she fumbled with the book and placed it on the floor. She struggled with stiff fingers to fold her hands in her lap. Her teeth ground into her lower lip and she smiled in that distinctive, awkward way.

“Your, um, Mary left to go to the clinic. She asked me to tell you; she and I were chatting,” Molly said, nodding emphatically so that a few hairs started to fall from their pristine bun. “It’s… well, it’s been a while.”

“Two years,” he said, blinking and sinking slowly into his chair.

“And three months and eleven days since I last spoke to you. I’d tell you the hour, but I’ve forgotten it.” She tapped the side of her head to excuse a moment of forgetfulness. 

John wanted to ask why she was here wearing a fancy suit and how long she was talking to his wife. Instead, he said: “Our last conversation… you told me he was dead.” 

“Yes I did,” she said, blinking rapidly like her eyes were keen to fly out of her head.

“And he’s not,” he added in case she’d missed that fact.

“No he isn’t,” she agreed and forced a smile. It was so like the smile John himself wore that he was startled. “That would also be why I haven’t spoken to you since. To any of you, actually. Actually, I’m not even working at the morgue anymore.”

John cleared his throat and tried to absorb the rush of information. “W… why not?”

“Because I’m a fraud.”

“Nobody knows that.”

“I know it,” her smile slipped. “I know it and that’s enough.”

John looked around, at a loss for words. His default was to apologize, but he had more reason to be cross than guilty. “He’s back, you know.”

“I know. Um, well, that’s actually why I’m here.” She paused a long moment as if remembering a message. “We want you to—“

“’We’?” John interrupted.

“Yes,” she said and then snapped as if she remembered something. “Oh! We, yes. We – Mycroft and I—“

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “No, this is impossible. No.”

“I—well, I’m working for him, you see,” Molly said before her lips faltered into a frown. “I do little more than the fetching, honestly. I run his errands.”

“And I’m his errand?” John asked.

“He knew you wouldn’t come willingly if he asked. And you, well, you’d recognize Anthea, so he thought—“

“Molly…”

“Um, actually, it’s a new name now. An alias: Pandora.” She pressed her lips into a tight line. “I thought it was fitting: the girl who opens the box and all the trouble comes out.” 

John’s hands tightened into fists and he wished now that he could wake up from this nightmare. “No, Molly,” he pleaded.

“There’s a car waiting. Oh, but it’s no rush. He’s paid by the hour, so he doesn’t mind waiting. Alonso’s his name – a very nice man.”

“I’m not hearing this,” John insisted.

Molly – she could never be “Pandora” to John – looked down sadly, bracing herself. “Your wife’s lovely, by the way.”

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded.

“I’m so glad for you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

She looked up at him. And then, like the frightened little animal she always was, jittered and looked away. “Keeping people alive.”

John couldn’t yell at her. He wanted to. He wanted to startle her enough that she’d run out of his house and never come back.

Instead, all he could do was let out a shaking breath and cup his forehead in his hands. “I’m not going with you,” he said at length.

“Oh…” Molly said quietly. She watched him and looked pressed for words, like a series of confessions were liable to topple from her mouth. Instead, she pulled out her mobile and began texting with shaking, unsure fingers. 

She was so unlike Anthea that John felt a pang of amusement. Molly looked a mix of bewildered and embarrassed, but went on pressing the buttons. After a long moment, she checked for a reply and started reading it aloud.

“Mycroft would like it to be known that you’re not doing any favors,” she said. “Um, that the police are perfectly capable on their own and that the detective you know is… Oh. No, I’m not reading that part.”

“What did he say?” John asked, more tense than he was willing to admit.

“That, um… that the detective you think you know is dead and buried.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to a resolution. This doesn't betide well as the past confronts the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off "The Adventure of the Empty House" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. With inspiration from "The Sign of Four," "The Adventure of the Dancing Men," "The Man With The Twisted Lip," as well as the Kandahar Massacre.
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas Lozchic, Caenis, Asterose, Nathan, and Davina for putting up with rigorous deadlines and for supplying me with the necessary information to make this story so much better. You guys are the best!

“I’m sure you are already aware that when my brother returned, he was not quite the same,” Mycroft said, sitting cosy in a stiff-backed chair in his office.

“Yeah, living in Norway as an explorer probably had something to do with it,” John said, thumbing through one of Mycroft’s books with no intent to read it. “All the herring…”

Mycroft folded his hands and turned to look at John. “My brother is a sick man,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” John mumbled.

“Over the course of these past two years, it has become necessary to keep him out of this country,” Mycroft said. “His genius has caused him to suffer. He is beginning to lose his grasp on reality.”

“What do you..?” John started.

“He thinks Moriarty is still alive,” Mycroft said. “He is, in a word, obsessed. He sees the enemy around every corner and I fear for his safety should he lose himself entirely to these delusions.”

“What’s your proof that Moriarty’s dead? A body? An autopsy? A funeral – Sherlock turned up alive.”

“Yes, but James Moriarty’s death was rather more final,” Mycroft said. “A bullet to the brain is astonishingly difficult to fake.”

“If you don’t want Sherlock up and about in London, why did you bring him back?” John said.

Mycroft sighed and folded his hands in front of himself. “He demanded details pertaining to Moriarty’s former associates. There seemed no connection amongst them, but Sherlock became engrossed in the information regarding Moran. I tried to warn him against unfounded conclusions.”

“Didn’t really work, did it?” John replied.

“Instead, Sherlock conceived the belief that Moran has continued to work under Moriarty,” Mycroft said. “My brother is chasing a dead man and that will inevitably lead to his own demise.”

John was silent.

“We’ve buried my brother once, John,” Mycroft said, his gaze sharp. “I won’t do it a second time.”

-

By the time John made it back home, it was well after one in the morning. Mary wasn’t due back until six. He tried to sleep, honestly, but his brain wasn’t having it.

At three in the morning, John gave up and made himself a pot of coffee. He got through two and a half cups before he changed into work clothes and a coat, pocketed his keys and wallet, and walked out the door.

He took a more straightforward route to Sherlock’s hotel. 

Sherlock wasn’t asleep, of course. He was bright and jittery, though the bags under his eyes told another story. It was probably the dim lighting, but John was sure Sherlock had gotten skinnier since they last spoke.

“What news have you brought?” Sherlock asked. John hesitated. “About the case? Your wife?” Sherlock prompted.

John rubbed at his eyes and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Nothing,” he said. Sherlock’s shoulders sunk. “Tonight she has dialysis. She won’t be back until six. I haven’t talked to her,” John explained.

Sherlock turned and flopped into his chair. He pushed around the papers on his desk with no real purpose.

John leaned over the desk to try to make sense of the variety of notes, scribbled by Sherlock with no desire for legibility, with words that sloped around the lines, but never along them.

“I saw your brother,” John said. He held up a piece of paper with some actual sentences on it and tried to decipher it. 

“Wonderful,” Sherlock muttered, snatching the paper out of John’s hand. “Was there cake?”

“Mycroft doesn’t believe you,” John said. “That Moriarty’s alive.”

Sherlock watched him a long moment, reading his expression. Then, he looked back down to his notes. “You don’t either,” he said.

“It’s not from a lack of – listen, I really want to,” John said. “But it’s kind of hard to imagine…”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened on him. “Your limited reasoning is holding you back,” he said. “You see without observing. It weakens your mind.”

John looked around uncomfortably and moved away from the desk. “But a bullet to the brain isn’t the same as jumping off a building…”

“And yet you were so certain I was dead,” Sherlock replied.

“Listen… with what happened on the roof – Moriarty shot himself, right? He did it in front of you? There’s no way he could fake that.”

“He’s toying with me,” Sherlock snarled.

“I don’t think…” John started.

“I know better than anyone the lengths this madman will go to destroy a person,” Sherlock said, moving to his feet like a thin wire of electricity. “He swore to burn my heart out.” Sherlock patted himself on the chest hard enough for John to wince. “My heart’s still here. He has unfinished business.” He shoved his notes off the desk and paced the room.

John watched him and the flurry of papers, feeling more tired than he ever felt during his all-nighters on Sherlock’s previous cases. “I think you’re wrong…” John said.

“You don’t know him like I do,” Sherlock snapped.

“No, but I… I think I know rather a lot about you,” John said. “Not anymore, though. He’s taken away the heart of you – what makes you a person. But you’d never notice.”

Sherlock steeled himself on the edge of the table. He glared at John with something unfamiliar lurking in his eyes. “Get out…” Sherlock growled.

John was already buttoning his coat. “I know.”

-

John was watching another round of morning news by the time Mary returned. He didn’t greet her or even raise his head to her. She unwound her coat from around herself. “Bad night?” she called, moving into the sitting room.

John sighed and rubbed his face. He took a deep breath and asked: “Why haven’t you told me about your parents?” 

She stopped short and fumbled with her handbag for a moment. “Sorry,” she said like she wasn’t. “You never told me about yours. I didn’t even meet Harry until last week.”

John was quiet a moment. “My parents are dead,” he said.

“What a coincidence,” she replied.

John shook his head. “Your father isn’t, though, is he?”

“My father—“ Mary raised her voice and cut herself off. She took a deep breath. “My father was an honourable military man, like you, John.”

“Honourable men don’t shoot up villages in Afghanistan.”

“He was framed,” she insisted like she said the words so often that they tumbled without thought from her mouth. “Anyway, they found him not-guilty.” She threw her handbag onto the couch and stood, shaking, with her arms crossed. “Are we done here?”

“Why are you in London?”

She gritted her teeth and fell silent.

“You’re not here for medical coverage,” John said.

“That’s part of it,” she replied. “It’s cheaper here—“

“What’s the reason that brought you here?”

Her lips were trembling and she bit into them to make them stop. “My dad used to send me money to help with the medical bills,” she said. “He sent me e-mails too – asking how I was and where I was living. And then they stopped.”

“When did they stop?” John asked.

“Two years ago,” she said. “He immigrated before that because he couldn’t find a job in the States after that court case got to be so publicised. He found an offer in London. He may not even be here anymore – he’s probably dead for all I know.”

“Just to be clear, his name is Sebastian, isn’t it? Sebastian Morstan?”

“ _Colonel_ Sebastian Morstan.”

“He’s not a colonel anymore.” John pressed his lips in a thin line and stared at the wall. He looked up in time to see Mary disappear up the stairs. He listened for the sound of the bedroom door slamming and locking behind her.

-

John had no idea why he went to work later that day. Maybe he was seeking some comfort in normalcy. But he didn’t have the concentration to deal with patients and he found himself half-listening to symptoms.

When his phone received a text message from an unfamiliar number, it was a welcome reprieve. He knew it was Sherlock even before looking at the message – strange how it was three days since they were reunited and John hadn’t managed to get his new number until now.

 _You should be here right now_  
SH

A bit stunned, he was, to be invited back to Sherlock’s habitat so soon after an argument. John assumed Sherlock would spend days moping at best, and disappear altogether at worst.

John forgot to be ungrateful. 

He told his coworkers that he was feeling ill and was taking the rest of the day off. He caught a cab to Sherlock’s hotel.

John was in better spirits when he arrived at Sherlock’s room, which was a coincidence because Sherlock seemed even more moody than usual. The former consulting detective flickered back and forth between fake smile and angry mutterings.

“What is your news?” Sherlock demanded.

John was left confused. “I thought you texted me because you had news,” he said.

Sherlock waved him off. “You spoke to your wife,” he said. “It’s been a few hours and you still haven’t reported anything to me. Either you’re protecting her, or—“

“I’m not protecting— she’s not involved in any of this,” John replied.

“Improbable.”

“She… yes, her father is Sebastian Morstan,” John said. “She came to this country to find him. She doesn’t know anything about what he’s been up to.”

“Convenient,” Sherlock snorted. 

John sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. Confusion and defeat intermingled and spread through the slump of his spine. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I just don’t know anymore.”

“I suggest you stop trusting her so readily, John,” Sherlock said. 

“What about you?” John said. “I don’t even know you anymore. Should I stop trusting you?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Trust me until the case is solved,” he said.

“And then, what, you’ll walk out of my life again?” John said. “Like it’s that easy? Like our friendship is that meaningless?” Sherlock didn’t look uncomfortable, so John carried on. “You were never planning on coming back, were you? You were just… going to let me think you were dead for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock seemed to consider whether or not the question was rhetorical. Finally, he answered: “Yes.”

John took a deep breath to steady himself. “Why?” he whispered.

“I’m a sociopath, John.”

“We both know… that is a load of bollocks,” John said, his voice tight in his throat.

Sherlock was silent.

“What did he say to you? What did Moriarty say to you-?”

“It wasn’t what Moriarty said,” Sherlock said.

“What then?” John raised his voice.

“It is a fact that attachments weaken people.”

“You’re saying you did this because of me? To teach me a lesson?”

“You’re becoming emotional,” Sherlock warned him.

“You twisted, loathsome…”

“It’s making you irrational,” he said. “If you’d like to be useful to me, then I need your mind as acute as it can be.”

“’Useful’?” John stopped. His situation began to fall in place around him. “Oh, my god, I’m Molly.”

“What?”

“The bank -- I do the fetching for you,” John said. “That’s what I’ve always done.”

Sherlock sat in his chair and leaned forward, his elbows pressed to his knees. In a voice that sounded so reasonable that it was staggering, he said: “You do more than that.”

“No, I don’t think I do,” John said, his voice rather the opposite.

“You’re certainly no genius,” Sherlock said. “You could never hope to solve a mystery on your own. Your lack of observance is almost humorous.” He seemed intent on continuing to list John’s flaws before he stopped. “But I’m better when you’re around.”

“You like having someone to show off to,” John muttered.

“I’m a show-off. We’ve been through this before,” Sherlock said. He watched John take a deep breath and let it slowly out.

“Fine,” John said. “What’ve you got to show off about now?”

Sherlock searched through a seemingly endless pile of papers before he pulled out his laptop. It was different from the one in their old apartment: smaller with a brighter screen. Newer.

He opened to a recent page to show Sebastian Morstan’s current bank statement.

“Withdrawals from all over the world,” Sherlock said. “Ever since this account’s inception, there has been a steady monetary build and large withdrawals starting in Istanbul and moving to Seoul, Okinawa, Nepal. They’re all within about five days to a week of one another – Morstan has been a busy man. The monetary exchange rate of the withdrawals is close to equivalent to the price of airfare, but not for a return flight.”

“But you said Ronald Adair was involved with the bank account, right?” John said. “If Morstan’s travelling all over the world like this, then are you saying he hired someone to shoot Adair?”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise and turned the laptop to face himself. “Yes, but the connection is still unclear,” Sherlock said. “Why would Adair help Morstan make a bank account? Morstan had no history of making payments for the past two years.” He scrubbed at his face. “Perhaps Adair was also involved with Moriarty,” he spoke to himself.

“No…” John murmured. “This is the same case Lestrade is working on, right?” 

Sherlock watched him and gave a small nod.

“Then Adair is something like a saint, if reputations are meant to be believed,” he said.

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Yes, well… I feel like I’m forgetting something…” John murmured. Sherlock crouched in his seat like a cat watching a fly. “Ronald Adair… something of a saint.” John let out a slow breath. “He worked with the homeless.”

Sherlock didn’t move or change expression. Then, he sat up a little straighter. “You’re suggesting… Sebastian Morstan hasn’t paid a single bill in two years because he’s spent this time homeless?”

“Part of helping the homeless would be setting up bank accounts for them,” John said.

“And when Adair found out where Morstan’s money was coming from, he threatened to close the account,” Sherlock said, moving to his feet to pace the room. “Morstan was a soldier, and not a very creative one if he thought massacre could be discreet. If his orders were to keep the account open at all costs, then he would certainly take the easiest path, but not the smartest one.”

John nodded slowly. “The murder was a week and a half ago,” he said. “Morstan could still be in London.”

Sherlock nodded and tugged on his coat over his pyjamas. He moved towards the door, but John stopped him.

“Wait, where are you going?” John asked.

“Homeless network – Morstan will likely be hiding in their territories, like the Golem was,” Sherlock explained. “Remember, Morstan has experience working under Moriarty. He would copy ideas that are known to work. Who better to find a plant than my homeless network?”

“Okay,” John offered. “But you should probably change out of your pyjamas.”

Sherlock was befuddled. “Why, does it look bad?”

John bit back a laugh. “It’s a sight better than that sheet you wore in Buckingham Palace,” he said. Sherlock smirked and made his way out the door.

John lagged behind, his thoughts snagged on Mary. 

Sherlock, who was paces ahead of him, stopped. “Are you coming?”

“No,” John said slowly as his mouth finished his decision. “I have to… Listen, your network isn’t bound to find anything immediately. So just contact me as soon as they do, yeah?”

Sherlock watched him with a certain stiffness as he took in this new information. 

“If this is how it must be,” the former consulting-detective said, and went ahead.

-

On his way home, John checked his phone. He had a message from Dr. Thompson. He’d missed his therapy session for the first time in two years.

It felt refreshing.

At home, the television set buzzed with life. Mary was asleep on the couch and a welcome relief spread through John. She wasn’t Molly, come to whisk him away, or Mycroft or Lestrade or Sherlock. She was normalcy.

He turned off the television and moved to tap her on the arm. She awoke with a start and took a moment before she glared at him.

“I should probably start by apologising,” he said.

She crossed her arms and straightened where she sat. “Should I expect you to feel sorry?” she asked.

“I thought my behaviour rather insensitive,” he said. “The whole thing with your dad was your secret to keep.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I mean, he got a lot of media attention. You were bound to find out – I just didn’t think you’d know so soon.”

He slid down on the couch next to her. “Do you think he’s a good man?” he asked.

“With all my heart,” she replied. “But what else am I supposed to think? He’s my dad.”

John nodded.

“I miss him,” she said. “I was a teenager when he left for Afghanistan. I knew he cared about me and that was enough. But now…”

“Two lonely people, and in all the world we managed to find one another,” John said.

She gave a weak chuckle. “Yeah, how’d we manage that anyway?” she said. “I never realistically imagined that you’d marry me.”

“I never really pictured myself married, so that makes two of us,” he said.

Mary looked uncomfortable a long moment. “I still have bills I haven’t finished paying off,” she murmured. 

John thought back to Sherlock’s deductions of her. “May I trouble you with one more insensitive question?” he asked.

“Oh, come on… this night was finally improving,” she said. “Go on…”

“Is that why the family fired you – the bills?”

She nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “I swear I’ll finish paying off my bills,” she said. “I’ve been doing some freelance work. You don’t have to divorce me…”

John blinked. “I don’t really see divorce in our future,” he said. “I want to trust you, Mary. I suppose we ought to have learned more about one another before we….”

“Yeah, this whole marriage thing is a lot of pressure,” she said.

“Pressure?”

“I don’t want you to feel like this was a big mistake,” she said. “I’ve never had to live up to someone’s expectations like this.”

“Well…. Stop it then.”

“What do you mean, ‘stop’?”

“Stop trying to impress me. That’s…. not what a marriage is built on. Well, it’s built on a lot of things we haven’t quite done right. We just, I suppose we have to learn to trust one another.”

She gave him the same sort of suspicious look that Sherlock often wore in the middle of social situations. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, I – I rather think this is the right direction for us to go, yes.”

“So… we’re good?” she asked, disbelief plain on her face.

“Unless there’s something else you’re hiding from me.”

She was silent a moment. Finally, she said: “My feet are bigger than I admitted – we nearly share a shoe size.”

He chuckled. “I thought I’d walked out in your loafers once.”

She was also laughing. “You did. I didn’t have the heart to tell you though.”

-

At four in the morning, John received a text message that jarred both him and Mary awake. Unlike Mary, who turned over and promptly fell back asleep, John watched his mind race from behind closed eyes.

Finally, after struggling a good thirty seconds to fall back asleep, he reached for his phone.

 _Found him_  
SH

“Don’t bloody care,” John muttered and dropped the phone back on the bedside table.

He began to doze when a dream of a memory struck. The vest made of bombs strapped around his chest – he could barely breathe – the voice in his ear telling him the words to say to Sherlock – helpless – telling him to say them just right or he’d get blown up the same as that little old lady and all those little people in that apartment living their boring, little lives.

Rage, horror, and, yes, indignation flooded John’s system and jolted him awake. He yanked open the drawer of the bedside table and stared down at his handgun.

As soon as he changed, he tucked the gun into his coat pocket. It felt heavier than he remembered.

Sherlock was walking towards him as John set foot outside. He motioned for John to follow.

They walked several blocks and then a few more. John craved coffee and bemoaned the fact that they could’ve called a cab and saved some time.

Finally, they arrived at a half-finished building – it was meant to be a tower before it was abandoned a decade or so ago.

“Got any change?” asked the man in Sherlock’s coat who stood by the entrance. Sherlock discreetly passed him a handful of money and John thought he saw a fifty in there.

The man led them into the building. The first floor had tents made of blankets. A garbage can sat in the middle, smelling of smoke.

The man walked past all this and up several flights of stairs, expertly avoiding broken glass and the gaps in the disintegrating staircase. Sherlock gracefully followed while John managed to trip over seemingly every hole in the floor.

They arrived on what appeared to be the fifth story. Cold wind whistled through the many openings and unfinished panels. The man in Sherlock’s coat approached a duffel bag on the ground, but didn’t touch it.

“We sent everyone away when we found this,” the man said, looking between Sherlock and John. “Don’t know who it belongs to.”

Sherlock stooped down beside the bag and unzipped it. Military-grade rifles lay in the bag, black and pristine. The man in Sherlock’s coat dashed down the stairs.

Sherlock pulled on his gloves and examined the weaponry. He was smiling.

“So he knows I’m still alive,” he said. “Almost clever to hide it where he’d need it rather than in safekeeping – not Morstan’s idea.

“But this is too far from Baker Street,” Sherlock continued. He climbed into the broken window and angled around, trying to find a clear view. “That entire block of Baker Street is obstructed by that building,” Sherlock said, pointing. “We’re too far for a clear shot, unless…” He froze. He pressed his hands together in front of his face and smiled.

“You’re being rather…” John began.

“Oh, no, it’s perfect,” he said. “Perfect.” He dashed over to the Northeast side. “Of course,” Sherlock said, perching on the window. “He knew where I was hiding the whole time.”

John came beside him and saw a clear view of Sherlock’s hotel. If he squinted, he could make out the balcony affixed to his room. John licked his lips and paled. “That’s… not far from my house,” he murmured.

“He watched me the whole time,” Sherlock murmured, practically humming. “He could have killed me at any moment – why wait? What was he waiting— oh…” Sherlock tilted his head back against the wood. “Obvious.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Mind catching me up on this?” he asked, folding his arms in front of himself.

“This is the proof Moriarty is still alive: Morstan has been spying on me, preparing to kill me, but he was waiting,” Sherlock explained rapidly. “Waiting on what? Orders. From Moriarty.”

“Are you sure..?”

“Come now, John: you proved Morstan wasn’t the one travelling the world. That could only mean…” Sherlock moved to stand, his mouth poised for an explanation when the sound of a gunshot echoed through the chamber. Sherlock cried out and collapsed.

John’s handgun immediately came out and he fired two shots as a figure in the shadows ducked out of view. He automatically slipped the gun’s safety on before he fumbled it to the ground. Struck with panic while racing through every medical possibility, John was at Sherlock’s side within seconds. 

“Shit, shit,” he whispered, trying to pull Sherlock’s hand away from where he was cupping the injury. 

Sherlock’s face was tight with pain and his breathing was shallow.

“Let me see it,” John insisted. Sherlock batted his hand away. “I’m a doctor, remember?” John insisted.

“It’s just a graze,” Sherlock panted. “K-keep your eyes to the shadows, John.”

Four years after being in the military, John hadn’t lost the ability to take orders. He grabbed his gun and was glad the safety was on, because he squeezed a bit too hard. John looked all around himself before he glanced back at Sherlock.

“Just… no dying, okay?” he said. 

Sherlock breathed out a chuckle. “I’d prefer you… remain intact as well,” he said.

John realised that in this moment, in this helpless little moment, Sherlock needed him. And Sherlock was probably scared – just as frightened as John. It was comforting to realise that the man bleeding beside him was another human being: not a machine or an animal.

Another gunshot fired: the bullet hit a steel beam and echoed throughout the empty building. 

“That’s your first warning,” a voice with a thick American accent echoed throughout the crumbling, half-finished building. 

John held his gun in front of himself as he scanned the area. Sherlock shifted shakily to his side and began to climb to his knees. John put a hand on him to stop him, and wasn’t above pushing Sherlock down to keep him from moving.

“Your daughter,” John raised his voice so it could be heard echoing throughout the building. “Your daughter still thinks you’re a good man.”

John felt the air pressure against his neck as a bullet came whizzing past, centimeters from his scarred shoulder. The sound took a few moments to catch up, and his ear started ringing.

“My daughter died two years ago,” the voice sounded furious. John heard the distinct sound of a gun being reloaded.

John was trembling, but he kept his gun steady in front of himself. He blinked against the fear, but his four years out of service were beginning to catch up with his nerves.

“That’s… not…” John struggled to put words together through gritted teeth and shaking lips.

“I have nothing left except to repay my debts,” Morstan said. His footsteps echoed throughout the area. 

John looked around out of the corners of his eyes to try to get a glimpse of the man’s hiding place. It couldn’t have been far from where the last bullet travelled, but John’s fight or flight instincts were screaming loud enough to throw off his calculations.

“I won’t hesitate to shoot you in that shoulder, Doctor Watson,” Morstan said. The footsteps continued, disrupting the words. It was more and more difficult for John to tell where the source was moving to. Morstan’s voice still echoed around them. “But first, I’d like to give you a message. Typical, I know, but I don’t make the rules.”

Sherlock moved up onto his elbows and slid out behind John. The two made eye contact and Sherlock offered him a look: the same look he always wore when he said “Follow my lead.”

The footsteps stopped. “This isn’t the story where you come out the victor, Sherlock Holmes,” said Morstan.

Sherlock pointed through the enormous gap in the unfinished floor. John caught a glimpse of black and shot.

The resulting cry of alarm sounded through the building, and following that was the satisfying clatter of a gun hitting the floor. The gun discharged into a nearby steel beam.

John moved to help Sherlock up, but the taller man was already on his feet and running down the decaying remains of stairs, cupping his injury. Sherlock grabbed Morstan’s fallen gun and switched the safety on as he aimed it at Morstan.

“You said you don’t make the rules,” Sherlock said, panting and grinning. “Then you talk about a story. It’s Moriarty. Moriarty made the rules and you’re still following them because he’s still alive. Tell me I’m right.”

Morstan was gripping his injured arm and groaning against the pain.

“TELL ME I’M RIGHT,” Sherlock hollered, flipping the safety off.

“Sherlock,” John warned, moving carefully down the stairs. When Sherlock turned, something ferocious and desperate twisted his expression. John held his hands up in surrender. 

Sherlock hesitated a long moment. Then he flipped the safety back on. John approached and gently pried the gun from Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock kicked Morstan in the face and stepped on his throat. “Tell me who else has access to your bank account,” he growled.

Morstan offered a weak smile and nothing else.

-

The wail of sirens came before two police cars screeched onto the scene.

“Late as always,” Sherlock said with a wince. “Good of the police to finally show up,” he called out to Lestrade, who was running up to them.

“I don’t fucking believe this,” Lestrade snapped. “I got the call and I still don’t believe this.”

Donovan and Anderson weren’t far behind and were both struggling with their own shock at the sight of the living consulting-detective.

“Yes, well, you’ll be pleased to find that this is the very same Sebastian Moran, or Morstan if you’re getting technical, you’ve been unable to track,” Sherlock said. “The man at the center of the credit card scam and I’m sure you’ll be able to piece together that he’s the killer of Mr. Ronald Adair.”

“He’s lying, sir,” Anderson insisted, his voice rising with a mix of frustration and dread. “He’s making this up or he’s tampered with evidence.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” John snapped.

“Shut up for once in your life, Anderson,” Lestrade said. “Cuff Moran.”

“You can’t let this… this monster walk away,” Donovan insisted, pointing at Sherlock, who smirked in greeting and winced.

“I’m not going to,” Lestrade ground out through gritted teeth. With a deep breath, he took out his handcuffs. “Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for suspected fraud and the murder of Richard Brook.”

“You can’t be serious,” John said, panic rising. “He’s injured – he needs to go to a hospital.” He attempted to push his way between them, prepared to incite the ire of the Scotland Yard once more to protect Sherlock. 

“Calm down, John,” Sherlock said as Lestrade recited his Right to Silence.

“But you can’t—he solved the case!” John insisted. 

“He’s a fraud,” Anderson insisted, hefting Morstan up to handcuff him. The dazed American remained silent.

John seriously contemplated giving Anderson an injury to match Sherlock’s. His gun was only a pocket’s reach away…

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and shook his head. “I have no fucking clue how you’re going to get out of this one,” he sighed.

“It’s simple enough,” Sherlock said, looking practically cosy in his handcuffs. “I recorded Moriarty’s confession moments before he died.”

Anderson balked. Donovan had her hands on her hips. “You mean Rich Brook – the man you murdered,” she said.

“He didn’t murder—“ John insisted.

“Moriarty’s confession is on my mobile, which is in my brother’s possession,” Sherlock went on, unphased. “I’ll tell him to release it into your… capable custody, Detective Inspector. My brother will help clear up the rest of the matter.”

“Such a liar-“ Donovan started

“Using connections to get yourself off the hook-“ Anderson said.

“He needs to go to the hospital,” John insisted.

There was a faint chime in the background. 

Sherlock raised his head, listening for the noise. Lestrade tried, to no avail, to get everyone to quiet. Then, in the lull of argument, he heard the sound.

“Who’s mobile is that?” Lestrade demanded like an overworked babysitter. “Anderson, turn your stupid phone off.”

“It’s not mine, sir,” he said, leaning in closer to Morstan. “It’s coming from his pocket.”

 _“Stand up beside the fireplace. Take that look from off your face,_ ” chimed the phone.

“What’s a homeless person doing with a mobile?” Lestrade demanded.

_“You ain’t ever gonna burn my heart out…”_

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He fought in his restraints. “Get the phone,” he demanded. 

“You stop struggling,” Lestrade said. 

“You’re going to worsen your injury,” John warned.

Sherlock was damn near thrashing. “Get the mobile out of his pocket,” he demanded. “Answer it, now!”

“You heard him,” Lestrade said.

“We don’t take orders from—“ Donovan started.

_“So Sally can wait. She knows it’s too late as we’re walking on by.”_

Donovan tensed. “It knows my name,” she said.

“It’s a song—how self-centered do you have to be-?” Anderson started.

“Get the mobile out and shut the hell up, all of you,” Lestrade demanded.

“My soul slides away… but don’t look back in anger, I heard you say.”

The phone passed through a series of hands before it landed in Lestrade’s possession. He pressed it to his ear.

“Who is this?” he demanded. He put a hand on his hip and stood with his legs apart like that might help intimidate the person on the other end. Silence fell over the group of them.

“I can hear you breathing,” Lestrade said. He looked unnerved a moment, then he snapped the phone closed. “The bastard giggled and hung up.” He threw it to Donovan, who caught it. “We need to run a trace on that last call. Get us back to the station.” 

Anderson and Donovan had no trouble getting Morstan in the back of their car. They returned to assist Lestrade in detaining Sherlock, since he’d escaped so successfully last time. Donovan rode with Lestrade as John ran after the cars. 

“Please – he’s injured,” he called, but they were already pulling away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> The ringtone is "Don't Look Back in Anger" by Oasis.
> 
> -
> 
> Look out for the sequel, “The Resident Detainee.” Expect it February of 2013!
> 
> Update: It seems I need to finish writing the third part before I can complete the second. The project is taking longer than expected and the new estimated time is (hopefully) the summer of 2013. I'm very sorry for the delay.

**Author's Note:**

> *Quest, the equivalent to Google in the "Sherlock" universe. Taken from episode 2, "The Blind Banker."
> 
> -
> 
> Do you like what you’ve read? Share this story with your friends! Feel free to leave a comment below.


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